Sugar-White Roses
by EffervescentYellow
Summary: "Hello Little Mouse, I'd like to see you run. With love, Jim Moriarty (The Farmer's Wife)" In which a psychotic villain finds out about a secret held by one Sherlock Holmes, a secret that could be fatal for everyone involved. A complex tale of thrilling cases, angsty romance, and unparalleled adventure.


It was on the eve of a chilly autumn when the deceptively ordinary man met the decidedly strange one. For Sherlock, it was simply another day at the morgue, bothered incessantly my Ms. Molly Hooper, one he would have been likely to delete entirely if it wasn't for the fact that a salt-haired man in a beige jumper turned up in the lab. For John it was a whirlwind, an old sort of friend, a new acquaintance, and sharing a flat with an utter stranger. It wasn't until John shot a cabbie to save a man he barely knew, yet whose baffling demeanor enthralled him, that both men realized they had both taken their first dose of a highly addictive drug. And yet it seemed that only John knew what he had taken.

A dose of pure friendship.  
Of the highest quality.

•••

The man by the name of Sherlock Holmes had just swept out of the room in coated glory and left one shocked doctor in his wake.

Mike Stanford clapped John on his shoulder (the bad one...of course...) "That's Mr. Holmes for you, always bustling off with no warning. He's a bit of an odd soul, but I think he's quite a decent man."

"Of course he's decent Mike, he's brilliant."

"True Dr. Hooper, but you have to admit he's a bit of a strange one, always running around with the police."

"That's what he does for work."

"But do they even pay him?"

John looked between his old friend and the perpetually nervous woman, "Sorry, but what exactly does he do?"

"Well no one is quite sure, but he is some kind of police detective." The woman, Molly, smiled.

"But he doesn't actually work for them does he?" Mike interjected.

"So you've just introduced me to a man who you claim to be quite strange and whose job you can't even name."

"Oh don't worry Dr. Watson, Sherlock is a great man."

John hoped he hadn't just made a crippling mistake.

•••

The Man with the Umbrella didn't look like something out of a comic book, and yet he claimed to be an arch enemy.

The Man with the Umbrella deduced him, threatened him, tried to bribe him, and then told him that he "worried...constantly".

The Man with the Umbrella tried to ooze a sticky fear, and yet he could only come off to be what John guessed he really was, a pompous dweeb.

And one day, the doctor would find he was entirely right except for one thing.

Mycroft Holmes was a pompous dweeb with a hidden, quiet heart.

And that quiet heart was still beating that night, John could see something (he wasn't sure what) in the way the Man with the Umbrella said the name Sherlock. He could see something in the way he warned John away.

"My advice would be to leave Sherlock Holmes alone unless you want to make an enemy of us both."

"Why."

"He will lead you no better place than prison, though it would be much more likely he will get you killed in worse ways than both Stalin and Hitler could have come up with combined."

"Right, thanks, but I think I can trust my own judgement."

"Of a man you just met? How intelligent your judgement does seem."

"Can I go now? I believe we are through."

"Sherlock Holmes is a mind, doctor, not a heart." The Man with the Umbrella's voice echoed after John had turned to leave.

"And you are? A heart?"

"Goodness no. You see, neither of us can carry emotion, we are both brains. Our difference comes in the fact that, while we both can observe, only your new acquaintance cannot see."

It would take John a few weeks to realize that this phrase was not lacking in a literal sense.

•••

"Why did you shoot him?"

"I didn't want anyone else dead, that was enough suicides."

"You want no one else dead but you shot a cabbie. Obviously you are very straight forward."

"Bugger off, yeah? Maybe I just didn't want my new flatmate dead?"

"Hmm, already coming off with sentiment, that came quickly."

"Why didn't you shoot him?"

"I wanted to know if I was right."

"About what?"

"The puzzle, two pills, honestly John, try and keep up."

"Of course, silly me! The puzzle!" John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, "Care to explain?"

"Do you like Turkish food?"

John didn't even get a chance to question before he was jogging to keep up with the bat-like man who had in such short time cured a limp, dubbed himself a Consulting Detective, and introduced a flamingly uptight brother in the form of the Man with the Umbrella.

God, John was really quite unprepared for the new lifestyle that came hurtling towards him like a stray meteorite.

•••

"Right, question."

"Mmh," Sherlock didn't indulge John in a glance, he kept running a round magnifying glass over the edge of a shoelace. Something about an old case.

"How can you a afford to wear a tailored suit every living day, but need to share a flat?"

"Already thinking of moving out then? Four days...almost a record for flatmates..."

"No, no I'm not just curious."

"I thought it was considered rude to talk about money."

"Well for one I happened to have realized that you don't actually care about social niceties, and two, seeing as you probably know my exact financial history based of the brand of my tea, I think it's only fair."

"I care for manners when I deem them necessary, and it wasn't your tea, I did actually have to look at your wallet for you financial history."

"Right, glad we're comfortable enough to be snooping around each other's things now."

"You have already shot a man for me John, don't argue with my methods," he glanced up from the magnifier for the first time,"And to go back to your original question, The tailor owes me a favor."

"The landlady, the restaurant owner, and now the tailor...exactly how many people owe you favors?"

"Indirectly? About the whole of London."

"Ah, glad I've got a humble flatmate."

"I am not humble, nor have I ever strived to be. I did seem to let on that I am a generally dislikable man when we first met."

"You pretty well told me you were an absolute nightmare of a flatmate."

"And yet here you are."

"Yes well, seeing as you mare my first flatmate, I didn't exactly have any standards to go on."

"That's probably a good thing." Sherlock buried his nose back down to his magnified shoelace, the pointed tip mere millimeters from the convex lens and yet he was still screwing up his pale cerulean eyes.

"What exactly are you looking at the shoelaces for?"

"Stop being so dim. Shoelaces are obviously some of the most important evidence, especially when it is a kidnapping case like this. They are minefields of evidence, always covered in debris. One little leaf sample, one particle of dirt stuck to the lace could be the key to finding the location of the kidnapper. A match up in parasites, metal ores, and decomposed substances could lead us straight to the geographical location of the kidnapping."

"Have you found anything on those laces yet?"

"Unfortunately, no."

John went back to watching the telly as Sherlock squinted on. It wasn't until he heard a terribly cracking sound that John turned back around, "What the hell?"

Sherlock was sitting straight now, not the contorted position he had been in, and was stretching his neck and back, "Good god Sherlock, that cannot be good for you."

"The popping of bones is simply a natural release of the air in joints. I thought you were a doctor."

"Sitting like that has to kill your back though."

"That's how I always sit."

"That hunched over?" John understood that a lean man like the detective was liable to be quite flexible, but the way he sat with his nose to the table was unnatural,"Then you should see my point. It's not good for you."

"Neither is shooting cabbies in the head but you apparently do that anyways." So the man did indulge in humor, whether he knew it or not.

"Leave it be John."

"Glasses maybe? Might help."

"Leave. It. Be." His tone was imploringly violent, so John did as asked.

He let it go.

•••

"Moriarty."

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock looked like a sleeping falcon on the couch, his eyes were lightly closed and his hands rested against his chin, "Moriarty, that's what the cabbie yelled out before he died. The name of the man, and I can presume he is a man, statistically, of whom he was working for."

"Why am I just learning this now?"

"Well it isn't as if you know him so I didn't see the point."

"Didn't see the point! What if I had, I dunno, run into him on the street or something?"

"Unlikely."

John was spluttering now, "What the hell! I can't even- Don't even bother to tell me the name of a supposed criminal mastermind! How am I supposed to be of any help!"

The blue eyes opened, "I've upset you."

"Fantastic observation."

"Why? If it isn't relevant, what is the point of knowing it?"

"Not relevant! NOT RELEVANT! You brought it up! Even without you bringing it up, HOW IS IT NOT RELEVANT!"

"I was thinking aloud. You know I do that. Anyways, it's more than me just withholding information isn't it." Sherlock was sitting up now and had John locked in his tilted stare."

"Stop it. Stop trying to deduce my feelings."

"They're just so easy to read. You're not so much mad at me not telling you about Moriarty's name in of itself; you're angry because you feel that I place no trust in you."

"Which you obviously don't."

"To an extent, no. I do not place all my trust in any single person because I am not stupid-"

"-You're an idiot-"

"-Not the same. But even with that fact, here you are, sharing a flat, joining me at crime scenes, and listening to my verbal thoughts. Do you honestly believe that you would have even the tiniest privilege at that if I did not trust you?"

"You've had other flatmates though."

"And they lasted for an average of 2.37 days."

John continued to huff, but he conceded, "If you trust me so much, care to tell me what you were thinking so loudly about."

"Moriarty, thought that one was fairly obvious." Sherlock was still looking at him with his head tilted inquiringly to the far right.

"Right, sod off then, and stop looking at me like that."

Sherlock cocked a dark eyebrow so, John gave an exasperated sigh and stomped up the stairs.

•••

The kitchen erupted into an inferno of vivacious green flames that danced towards the ceiling.

"Sherlock what the hell?!" John jumped up and went grabbing under the kitchen sink to grab the fire extinguisher."

"YES!"

"Sherlock! Help me put it out!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air and spun off in victory as the flames sprinted ever higher, "Dammit, Sherlock you blew up the kitchen!"

A hiss of white spray erupted like a bullet in velocities that choked the effervescent flames in their apex of destruction.

Ms. Hudson came running up the stairs coughing, "Sherlock Holmes, you better have a good reason for all the noises and smells!"

"No, no, no Ms. Hudson go back downstairs, nothing to worry about here," Sherlock tried to usher her out of the flat before she could see but she ducked under his arm and squealed.

"Oh my! The kitchen's on fire! Young man-"

"Yes, yes of course I'll pay for it; now get out before John kills you with the fire extinguisher," he grabbed her shoulders and managed to get her out the door even with her slapping his hands away and admonishing his "unacceptable behavior in the kitchen."

John stood in dubiety in a pool of foam, his face red with smoke and his lungs practically spasming with coughs, "Sherlock-" he managed to get out, "what-the hell-what the hell-was that..."

"Barium Chloride," Sherlock stood with a smug smirk in front of the window."

"Why-what-"

"Old case, I'm excessively bored, had to dig out the archaic files... A man went all around London setting off colored fire bombs, all completely harmless interestingly, but it caused quite a stir. Each flame is made by different combinations of elements, and the color green is made of Barium, Barium Chloride. At the same time six young adults were murdered in association with a drug deal gone wrong, specifically a drug deal having to do mainly with the acquiring of methamphetamine. The causes of death seemed at first glance to be six unrelated cases of meth overdoses, not uncommon, symptoms included all the signs: nervous system gone awry, rapid heartbeat, increased breathing, anxiety, and extensive muscle weakness. What the medics didn't realize until later was that these symptoms were almost identical to those of a person who took an acute dose of Barium, even less than one gram of which can be fatal."

"So there was a Barium killer."

"Good you see the obvious connection."

"I wouldn't say obvious..."

"Apparently neither did the police. You see, even once they realized it was poison by Barium, not methamphetamine, they didn't notice the connection. Who else but an advanced chemist would be able to create extensive amounts of compounds to create the colored fire bombs, only an advanced chemist would have the knowledge and tools to create enough meth to support a whole drug operation, it turn giving him the money to create his bombs. It's a loop, John, a man with the money, expertise, and knowledge could acquire barium chloride and in turn separate out fatal doses of pure Barium."

"So the owner of the drug cartel also made harmless colored fire bombs and killed six men by Barium poisoning?"

"Correct."

"I still don't understand it all."

"God are you really so daft?"

"What did you blowing up the kitchen have to do with anything if you already knew how to make green fire bombs?"

Sherlock flipped his hair out of his eyes, "Bored."

"So you just...blew it up...just 'cause..."

"Mm, yes."

"Ok fine, whatever, just...yeah... Next question, why did that man do all that, it's all so convoluted. Why kill the men that way, why set off random bursts of colored fire? Was he ever even caught?"

Sherlock turned around towards the front door, "No, we never caught him, the police were being maddeningly idiotic. By the time they actually figured out all the mundane evidence like fingerprints and DNA, the murderer had already, what's the phrase," he snapped his fingers, "skipped town. Though I am about 74% sure he is somewhere in Togo."

"Ok, but why did he do all that."

"The same reason I blew up the kitchen, he wanted attention, and was infuriatingly bored."

And with that he pulled on his coat and flew out the door.

It was nice to know that he was living with a man who was undeniably on his way to complete insanity, he was brilliant, but he was bloody well mad. If one man got bored and murdered six people, what would stop anyone from believing Sherlock would.

John quickly banished that nauseating thought from his head and began to try and salvage at least part of the kitchen.

•••

London was growing ever grayer, and it seemed to bother not anyone more than London's most sickening criminals. John pulled his coat tighter as he bustled through the streets Chelsea's identical bricked houses. He had come all the way out to Chelsea at Lestrade's request and he was hoping it was worth his time.

He finally spotted to flock of police that were dancing around like wet birds. Yellow tape was webbed around quite a large area, and the police had set up a sort of human barricade.

"Excuse me, I need to get through."

"Officers only, sorry sir."

"I'm with Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Do you have a license or a warrant?"

"No, but just-"

"He's with me Drager, let him through," Lestrade appeared through the sea of uniforms, his face twisted into a grim plaster. He lifted up the tape, "Sherlock with you?"

"No, I texted him though, said he'd be here soon."

"Hmm, he'd better be. This case, it's-it's pretty bad..." The pair walked by a few police officers who all looked duly horrified, John recognized Anderson. He couldn't tell if the man was more likely to faint or vomit.

"What is it exactly."

"Homicide, we suspect it to be about a day old, it's-well you can see it yourself I guess," John followed Greg Lestrade into the dimly lit house on the end of the street. The stench hit him like a tornado in Africa. Appalling and horrifyingly unexpected, "I know you're a doctor, and an army doctor at that, but this is pretty gruesome."

"And who is the victim?"

"That's why I called in Sherlock. The victim is now completely unrecognizable."

"Right," John pushed open the closed living room door and practically gagged.

A body lay spread out like a man who had been prepared for his drawing and quartering. Blood caked the varnished floor, acting like glue to keep the body immobile, not that it would be going anywhere.

At first all John could process was the corpse's redness, it's blatant disfigurement, the utter violations that had been committed upon it.

But on further glances John could see that the corpse lacked its eyes.

And that it was skinned like a deer.

"Bloody hell."

"No one knows quite what to make of it."

"I don't think there is anything I can do until Sherlock gets here."

"Yeah, ok, go on back out and wait for him then." John nodded and retreated from the nightmare that lay before him.

•••

It was nearly an hour of waiting later with no new leads when John finally saw Sherlock loping towards him. He didn't stop when he reached John though, in fact, he passed inches in front of him without batting an eye.

"Um, Sherlock?" Sherlocks head whipped around faster than a snake strike, "didn't see me there?"

"No."

John bunched up his face in incredibility, "I was literally inches from your face."

"Distracted." But John didn't miss the slight peach tint that splashed his pearly cheekbones. He decided to, again, let it go.

"Obviously."

"What have you made of it so far?"

"You'll just prove me wrong."

"Of course, but that doesn't mean I don't want your opinion."

John sighed but decided to indulge his lank friend, "It appears to be some kind of...ritualistic death."

"In chelsea...interesting." Sherlock swept into the house and almost ran straight into Lestrade. Apparently he was being completely blind to the real world today, "Lestrade, hello, what idiotic hypotheses do you have for the world today."

"Oh for god's sake just go look at it yourself, I'm not in the mood for a so called game." Greg's voice was razor sharp gravel, uncharacteristically exhausted sounding.

John watched the brilliance unfold as Sherlock's nose barely twitched at the putrid stench, how he didn't even bother pulling out his magnifier once he saw the mangled dead man, how he snapped his fingers and it was gone.

"It's too useless now, I know what type of knife they used, and cause of death is torture, but they used drugs, you can see how all the muscles are relaxed," and you very well could see this with all the skin scraped away, "but I suspect common sleeping pills. I want a list of all reported missing persons plus DNA and blood samples, we will find a match eventually."

"Is that all you can figure out right now?"

"I can tell you that the victim spoked weed, indicting of low intelligence and worth ethic, slightly overweight, again, no ambition, borrowed money from rich mother to by the house, and a string of lovers, all serious to a point, at least they weren't just one-nighters, the terminating factor in the relationship seeming to be work related, probably due to his excessive time spent on the job, and that the killer has brown hair," he picked a strand of hair off the floor as proof for the last one, "So we are looking for a missing person who works for either the government or a highly important company, but who holds a lowly position."

"Incredible."

"Thank you, John, now I think it is time for us to go."

Lestrade called after him," Sherlock! You can't just-"

"-Leave? Yes I can. You have my number. Goodbye."

Once outside Sherlock turned to a white faced John, "Thai?"

"For god's SAKE! Sherlock I just saw a man get SKINNED, and you except me to be hungry." The army doctor's hissing was more explosive than Semtex.

Sherlock had quite the nerve to answer, "Yes, in fact I believe you will be starving after the shock fades."

"Fine, whatever, I don't care!"

"Yes you do. You don't like this case."

"Do you?!"

"I find it quite reminiscent of some of Ivan IV's more famous killings."

"Who?"

"Russian Tsar, better known as Ivan the Terrible, ruled from 1547 until 1584. Boiled and skinned nobles who weren't loyal to his centralization of the government, rumored to have poked out the eyes of the two architects who built St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow so they could never build anything as grand. This leads me to conclude that our corpse has planned or was planning something huge for our murderer, I don't know what, but then had his disloyalty exposed. Though I am quite positive the actual killer is not the one who committed the crime."

"The same on from the cabbie case possibly?"

"My thoughts exactly, congratulations John."

"And you didn't bother to inform the police of this."

"No, they wouldn't see it. It would be a waste of time. Better to have them just do the boring work of searching out our missing man."

"Not sure I quite agree, but fine. One last thing though."

"Mm?"

"How come you know all about Russian Tsars but can't even name our current monarch?"

"Old monarchs were so much more fun; the new ones are never insane."

They passed a small cafe with a jellyfish school of neon signs advertising Kuay Tiew, Pad Thai, and Kao Phad.

Sherlock gave it a glance but kept walking, "Sherlock, what's wrong with that one?"

"They only have a wall memu."

"What's that have to do with anything?"

"Everything." Sherlock turned his head away from the bright lights and stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets. John realized that Sherlock was always doing that, ducking away from the sun, from incandescent lights. Interesting.

"I won't ask, it's fine."

"There is a good place three blocks east."

"Do you seriously have whole map of London memorized? Lestrade says you do."

"Then for once Grayson is actually right about something."

"Greg."

"Whatever."

They walked through the jungle of metropolitan life, stepping in old puddles, exiting Chelsea to find themselves back in the land of alleyways, Sherlock walking too fast for John, his head ever tilted to the right, searching and deducing the world. The Thai restaurant was a bit nicer than the one they had passed earlier, though it was matchbox sized to say the best, to Sherlock's pleasure, though, they had personal menus laid out at each table.

"This good?"

"Yes."

The door opened with a small jingle and a plump woman came racing from the back."

"Welcome to Taste of Samut Prakan! My name is-" her face suddenly lit up in a flame of recognition, "Mr. Sherlock! I haven't seen you in much time! Come, sit by nice table by window, bring handsome date, too!"

"I'm not actually his date..."

"Come, sit, I'll get the usual for you."

"Don't bother Ms. Saowaluk, I won't be eating anything."

"Yes he is, "John rounded on Sherlock, "You are going to eat-no, don't argue-if I can eat after that case, you will too. You need it."

"What for Handsome Date?"

"I'm not...just Pad Thai..."

"Good, good. Food come out soon."

John sat down across from Sherlock at the table (always the bloody romantic table by the window), "What favor have you done for her?"

"Got her son out of a drug possession charge."

"How did you manage that?"

"It wasn't him, it was his girlfriend."

"Bit awkward for the relationship."

"Mmh, quite."

Sherlock was gazing out the window as he waited for his food, and John realized he had never sat this close to Sherlock and just had the opportunity to observe him. John saw his chocolate shaving curls, his prominent cheekbones, that hooked nose, and those permanently squinted eyes. Those eyes, that John observed, were twitching jerkily back and forth, oscillating to an off-beat metronome, almost spasming...

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock side eyed him without turning his head, "...fine"

"It's just...your eyes, they're-"

"Oh, that," he picked up a stray menu and held it in front of his face, "I'm fine."

"It doesn't look fine, are you sure you are alright?"

"It's probably just stress or something. Possibly a lack of sleep."

"I always tell you to sleep."

"It doesn't matter. It won't really help." Sherlock's amber voice vibrated like a violin minuet through the menu.

"Sherlock your eyes don't look good, you should see an eye doctor if this keeps happening." John sounded worried, Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"I've seen plenty." And that was it. The food arrived and though John was still staring at him with knitted brows, Sherlock was forced to put down the menu to pick at his food.

Sherlock kept his head turned away for the rest of dinner, though, and not once did he spare a glance at John.

•••

They arrived at Baker St. Just as the sky reached its apex of velvety purple and the cars on the streets began to slow and fade away. Sherlock stopped short of the door, "John, do you have your gun."

"Of course." John reached into his coat and felt for the heavy metal object.

"Good, there's been a break in."

John sucked in a breath and followed Sherlock's steady gait inside.

"Check on Ms. Hudson would you?"

"Yeah, take the gun though in case you need it." Sherlock's hand brushed over John's as he grasped the gun; he turned and slid up the stairs like a silent panther on a hunt for prey.

John pushed open the door to Ms. Hudson's rooms (she always left it unlocked) and made his way through the dark kitchen and into the living room.

The glow of the muted telly washed the room in flickering blue fairy light, illuminating a sleeping Ms. Hudson draped over one end of her couch. John quietly pulled a beige knitted blanket over the grandmotherly woman, checked quickly through the other rooms, and ran up to join Sherlock.

About halfway up the stairs, John could begin to make out frantic footsteps, so he skipped the last few steps and barged into the flat.

It was only Sherlock, albeit Sherlock maniacally stepping on top of furniture and tearing through the house like a caged tiger, and of course, waving John's loaded gun in the air.

"It's all clear in case you were wondering."

"Good, then put the gun down."

Sherlock stopped and looked at the weapon in his hand, as if just recognizing its presence, before setting it gently on the desk. John turned in a circle, looking through the mess his flatmate had just made when he spotted something quite disturbing hanging off of Sherlock's bedroom door, "That's not one of you experiments is it."

"No, they left that as a message."

Sherlock and John both stopped and looked to Sherlock's door.

Three dead albino mice hung from it.

Their bloodied tails still twitching around the nails jammed in their bases.

"So that's it? Some man just broke into the flat to do that?"

"Not any man, the same man who skinned the one from the case. The same one who most likely works for our criminal mastermind, Moriarty."

"What were you looking for then?"

"Proof, which I have found." He plucked a hair from John's chair and held it up, "Same length, color, and texture. And the general grotesque theme of the cases, along with plenty of other details I won't bore you with, lead me to my conclusion."

"In that case can I take the mice down."

"Yes, I would very much like them off my door-" Sherlock's face suddenly became pasty-white as his gaze fell to the corner of the room.

On the bookshelf, hidden in the shadows of an old copy of Thomas Malthus' "An Essay of the Principle of Population" was a mousetrap, and on one end was a folded up note.

Sherlock jumped over the coffee table and extracted a pen from his pocket, using it to snap down the mousetrap so he could extract the note. He unfolded it carefully and as soon as he read it let out a horrified sounding, "Oh," that chilled the room significantly, before striding into his room and shutting the door.

"Sherlock? What was that? What did it say?"

"Nothing-I'm fine..." An interesting answer to a question that wasn't quite asked, "Just-go get some more bread and tea at that Tesco place or something."

John was thoroughly confused and rightfully annoyed, but he figured he would get no where with the detective at this point. And they did actually need both more bread and eggs, "Right, I'll be off then. Have a nice time solving cases while I do all the shopping."

John never got to Tesco though, a nice black car slithered up beside him, and he was chloroformed from there.

•••

"Hello Dr. Watson."

John groaned and rubbed his eyes, "Was that honestly necessary?"

"Yes." Mycroft Holmes (it was hard seeing him without his trusty umbrella) shifted a file on his desk, "We have become aware of a break in at your flat, and the message that was left there."

"Became aware? Yeah right...glad to know you've got cameras in my living room..."

"I only do what must be done. I am sure you have picked up the significance of the mice now haven't you?"

"Um...no."

"And Sherlock says you are a smart one, interesting. Are you familiar with the nursery rhyme about three mice."

"Three-three Blind Mice?"

"Very good. Now though the rhyme is already quite dark for a children's tale, and though it has many quite legitimate historical references that I won't concern you with, it talks of blindness, a subject my brother is very familiar with." Mycroft reached out and ran his fingers over the petals of a white rose that was in a vase on his desk, "Do you know the symbolic meaning of a white rose Doctor?"

"Would you mind stopping all the riddles?"

"Innocence, purity. But this rose isn't any white rose, this is an albino rose. An albino rose symbolizes mystery. Who knows what color it would have been if it had not had just one small genetic defect. So now it goes through life with only a pretense of innocence, of purity, in reality it could have been, red, pink, purple, any color. It may appear innocent, Doctor, when in reality it hides lust, danger, and of course, love. My brother is the same way as you might have picked up. He is an albino rose, both literally and figuratively." Here Mycroft paused and opened the file, "You see, my brother has Ocular Albinism. I'm sure you are familiar with the term albinism, being a doctor."

John closed his shocked mouth in order to reply, "It's, It's a lack of pigment in the hair, skin, and eyes."

"And by the name Ocular Albinism you may deduce that...?"

"He has the form of albinism in which only his eyes lack pigment."

"A lack of pigment in the eye does detrimental things for ones vision, why don't you read about it?" Mycroft pushed the file across the desk.

"_Ocular albinism in an inherited condition in which the eyes lack melanin pigment, while the skin and hair show normal or near-normal coloration. Eyes will often be blue or gray, with some people having green or even brown eyes in rare cases._

_The lack of pigment in the eyes causes various vision problems:_

_-Reduced visual acuity from 20/60 to 20/400_

_-Nystagmus - involuntary back-and-forth movement of the eyes. Often one will hold their head in an "unnatural" position to find their Null Point, or place where the movement of their eyes is least. Nystagmus can be worse during times of stress or tiredness._

_-Strabismus - crossed eyes or a "lazy" eye_

_-Photophobia - sensitivity to bright light and glare, some people may prefer to wear hats and sunglasses even indoors."_

And suddenly Sherlock made a lot more sense. The way he would walk by people without ever recognizing them. How he would continue talking to a person even if they left the room because, apparently, he couldn't see him leave. How he always kept his head to the right to hide his nystagmus, but how John noticed it after a case because it had gotten progressively worse. How he always squinted and held everything centimeters from his face, yet still used a magnifier.

"My brother's vision is around 20/300 on a good day."

"He's legally blind."

"Yes, not fully blind, as a doctor you can understand the difference. He can still see."

"He just can't see as well. It is uncorrectable?"

"Yes, glasses only help in the event that a person also has astigmatism, my brother does not."

"Who else knows?"

"Lestrade and your landlady-"

"Ms. Hudson."

"They know something, though not what."

"How did I not know this?"

"He tries to hide it. And people often romanticize those they care about. Blinded by their love shall we say; pun slightly intended." Mycroft took back the file and smiled slightly, "Dr. Watson, my brother is was a lonely man before you came along, and when he is lonely, he is crazed, uncontrollable. I would hate to see him that way again."

"If you are wondering whether or not I am going to leave because of this, the answer is no. So he is legally blind, I have known him for the better part of four weeks, why should this change anything?"

"Exactly."

John scraped his thickly stuffed chair backwards and stood up, "Are we done here?"

"I believe we are."

"Good, then I have one last thing to say."

"Yes." Mycroft Holmes cocked up a very prestigious eyebrow.

"Sherlock's business is his business to tell. From now on you will not tell me about him without his permission, understood?"

"You must admit, you are relieved to know."

"Do piss off."

John strode towards the door, but stopped when he heard the elder Holmes brother stand, "While caring is a dangerous disadvantage, infallible loyalty can be fatal. I advise you to be careful doctor." With one last look at the pure white rose and The Man Currently Lacking an Umbrella, John walked out the door, and left.

•••

"So he told you then?"

Sherlock was watching John as he took off his coat.

"How did you know?"

"You smell of Mycroft's disgrace of a cologne and you won't stop looking towards my eyes. Just to make this fast, I don't need any help, I am obviously fully capable at doing everything, and if you give me any pity I will pack up your things for you personally."

"That last one is hard for me to believe, you, packing. And this doesn't change anything."

"Oh but it does, it always does."

"I think you could use some help. It's not a crime to be blind you know."

"But it isn't exactly an advantage either now is it. There are exactly three reactions to blindness: pity, bullying, and the most annoying one where any accomplishment is made into a headline news story about how absolutely amazing this blind person is because they happen to have the ability to do the same things perfectly sighted people do. So, no, it isn't a crime, but my life will not be made into a gold medal Olympic victory either."

"It is pretty cool that you are a detective though isn't it?"

"We have five senses, John, only one of which is sight. I am perfectly adept at using the other four."

"Well yes but you have overcome plenty of adversity and things like that."

"Overcoming! Adversity! Despicable words! I haven't OVERCOME anything! I am just living! Tell me how I can overcome something that is the only thing that I have and will ever know! This is simply my life, and I just happen to be living it."

"Sorry, ok, that probably wasn't the best thing to say."

"No it probably wasn't."

"If you want my medical opinion-which I know you don't-I think it would be good if you got some more magnifiers and stuff, it can't be good to sit all hunched over and squinting all day."

Sherlock's hands flew up like talons in the air; he combusted, "I TOLD you that I am FINE. So do stop worrying. Stop caring. The sentiment is suffocating!" He was shaking now, with rage or emotion John was unsure. Sherlock's voice cracked as he slammed himself into his room, "Why must you care."

John was left in silence to answer for himself, "Because I am your friend."

John paced around the flat for a good half hour, staring razor-sharp daggers at the three mice currently laid out on the table, before he spotted the little folded white note from the mousetrap. It was barely showing from inside Sherlock's coat that was hanging by the door. John went and unfolded the thick paper.

The message was simple, and poignantly alarming.

_"Hello Little Mouse,_

_I'd like to see you run._

_With love,  
Jim Moriarty  
(The Farmer's Wife)"_

_•••_

**_A/N- Hello everyone! This is the first chapter of my first ever Sherlock fic! I hope you've enjoyed it, more will be coming soon. i would love any and all reviews. Also, if you have any questions, especially ones about Albinism or Ocular Albinism, I am a bit of an expert seeing as I have Albinism myself. Hope you keep reading as the story progresses!_**


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